


Human Intervention

by VishanteKaffas (underneath_the_africanskies)



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Angst, Jearmin - Freeform, Jearmin Summer Splash, M/M, Renaissance Italy, Team AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-04-14 19:30:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4577052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/underneath_the_africanskies/pseuds/VishanteKaffas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Renaissance, Italy. Thinking is strictly censored by the Church, yet Armin wishes to share his discoveries with the world, all the while falling in love with someone who is very much forbidden.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Human Intervention

**Author's Note:**

> This piece is part of the Jearmin Splash 2015 - a team based writing competition  
> Prompt: A Baptism of Fire  
> Team: AU  
> Word Count: 3,232
> 
> Banner provided by [benriya-nic-kerdoodle](http://benriya-nic-kerdoodle.tumblr.com/)

* * *

 

 

_1589- Florence, Italy_

A small cottage had been built in the countryside, an hour’s carriage ride outside the main city. It was made of plain, brown stone that grew dark in the rain, offset by the honeysuckle that clung to its walls, filling the air with a sweet scent in the height of summer. The cottage had a small garden that would appear to be neglected, but for the small rose bush at the end of the path leading to the front door. In the height of summer, the roses would be in full bloom, their petals marvellous deep shades of red, tones of purple dancing around the heart of the flowers. Even at a glance, it was clear that it was only through human intervention that these roses could grow so lush and colourful.

Inside the cottage was a study. The walls were lined with shelves, all stuffed to the brim with a manner of papers, primarily books and used parchment, staining the room with the scent of faded words and yellowed paper. On the floor, yet more books were piled together, close to the shelves, as if to be clear they belonged to the rest.

The room was small enough that it could be lit by a single candle if its occupant wanted.

Armin sat in his study, his single candle lit and illuminating the terror on his face as his hand raced across the page. He replaced his quill into an inkpot, quick and precise with practice, careful not to blot paper.

His shaking hand made this difficult to manage, and when he replaced his quill onto the page, ink spread and erased the letters that had come before it. He swore under his breath, replacing the quill and massaging his hand in an attempt to still the shaking.

_Calm down_ , he told himself.

After a moment, he picked up the quill once again, his hand steady.

His task complete, he gave the ink time to dry as he walked around the tiny room, collecting his things and double checking the single rucksack that held all his most important possessions. His eyes passed over the sketchbook that lay on the only other stool in the room, determined to ignore the ache in his heart the book elicited.  

Ink dried, he collected his letter off the desk and perused it, wincing at this penmanship. Deciding it was legible despite the ink blots and shaky sections, he folded it and placed in an envelope, leaving it unsealed. He tucked the letter into his coat inner pocket, ensuring it was safe before putting on a simple ochre travel cloak.

His eyes went back to the sketchbook, pain burning in his chest once again. He didn’t have time for this. In a spur of the moment, be walked forward and picked it up, stuffing it into his rucksack which was no truly stuffed beyond capacity.

Blowing out the single candle, he left the cottage, making sure to lock the front door. The moon was full and beautiful, illuminating the world in gentle silver.

He walked away from his cottage without a single glance behind, eyes forward, determined to accept the responsibility he had brought upon himself. The words painted onto the front door bore into his back as he walked away, screaming their malicious intent even under the cover of darkness.

_Heretic._

* * *

 

 

_1579- Florence, Italy_

It wasn’t that Armin didn’t like social events, he just wasn’t very good at them. He had chosen art and science as a profession because they were solitary for the most part. He didn’t like the fact that the best way to get commissions was to attend these functions with people that reminded him of those that used to spit at him on the streets.

_I feel ridiculous_ , he thought as he ran his hands through his flax hair. He had tied it back at the nape of his neck, his hair clashing horribly with the bright red coat that had been chosen for him to wear. Beneath, he wore a shirt of yellow, frills peeking out the edges of the coat, completing the hideous outfit.

Yet this was what he had been given to wear. “It’s the fashion, it’s the fashion!” he muttered, imitating the tailor that had visited _. The fashion sucks_ , he thought bitterly.

 As he suspected, he was not at all in fashion, and stood out like a sore thumb at the dinner party. “Armin Arlert,” he introduced himself as he watched noble after noble stifle their laughter with practiced control.

“Armin Arlert,” he introduced himself again for what felt like the fiftieth time. The man was tall- Armin had to look up to meet his eyes. He had sandy hair, a long face, and his suit was very much in the latest fashion.

_He didn’t hear me_ , Armin rationalised as he watched the man walk over to a young lady without acknowledging him.  

He watched people as he fiddled with the frills on his sleeves, his hands behind his back, standing on the edges of the party.

“You should socialise,” a voice said next to him. Armin looked down to find his work master standing next to him.

“I’m an apprentice,” he insisted to Levi. The man raised an eyebrow at him. “I just received a commission from Lord Smith over there,” he said, inclining his head towards a tall blonde man. “Came all the way from England to find an artist. If you want a career that will feed you, you have to participate.” He lowered his voice. “You know how much I hate this bullshit.”

Armin gave a small smile and nodded. Levi continued. “But, I do it anyway. You won’t be an apprentice forever. Start practising,” and with that, he disappeared into the crowd.

Much to Armin’s relief, the first dinner bell sounded shortly after his conversation with Levi, and they made their way to the dining hall where Armin would be limited to speaking to the people on either side of him. The relief turned to annoyance when he saw the tall noble was seated next to him at the table.  

Once he was seated, he decided to try introducing himself again, only to be met with a lovely view of the man’s back.

Armin would look back at this and recognise it as the moment he gave up. Nothing significant would have happened if it weren’t for the events that happened during the soup course.

The redeeming part of these functions was the food. Having grown up in an orphanage with very little by way of nourishment, Armin was constantly in awe of the sheer amounts, let alone the quality of the dinners.

Which was why he didn’t notice the voices next to him growing louder until he was head first in his soup.

Blinking, he wiped his face with a handkerchief he had on his person as the two men that were beside him brawled behind him, the fight ending with a sickening crunch as the tall noble yelped with pain.

The victor returned to his seat, but the other remained on the floor, blood gushing down his front, soaking into his crisp, white suit.

The man was rude. He had ignored Armin the entire evening, going so far as to refuse to greet him and knocking him into his soup. Armin mournfully wiped away the remainder of the meal from his face, grateful he had the foresight to tie his hair back, glancing back at the man who was still sitting on the floor.

He looked around, but no one was taking notice. Sighing, he placed his dirty handkerchief on the table, scraped his chair back and walked over to the man, grabbed an arm and lifted him up.

Ten minutes later, he found himself cleaning the blood off the other’s face, dipping the cloth into the water of a decorative pond in the garden. The only source of light spilled from the dining hall, bathing them in soft light.

With most of the blood cleared, he saw the other’s nose was bent at an odd angle that Armin was sure hadn’t been there before.

“Your nose looks broken,” he said softly as he placed the soaked cloth next to him.

“Wonderful,” the man replied nasally.

“I could set it for you, if you like,” Armin offered. He received a doubting look.  
“Are you a doctor?”

“Something like that,” Armin replied, pinching the man’s nose between two fingers. “This is going to hurt,” he warned, then abruptly twisted it. The man yelped, hands jumping to his face.

“All done,” Armin said, standing. “You can keep the cloth.”

He made to walk away, when the man called after him.

“I’m Jean Kirschtein. I’d like to thank you.”

Armin paused, turning around. Jean was still sitting, dabbing his face with the cloth. The light created shadows on his face, exaggerating  his features, and Armin was suddenly taken by how very handsome he was.

_Stop it_ , he told himself.

He still had to answer.

“Armin Arlert. There’s no need.”

He turned around and walked away.

 

* * *

 

 

Armin had applied for an apprenticeship several years previously. To his surprise, Levi had taken him on.

The first few months had been difficult. He cleaned the brushes, made dinner and swept the floors. He dusted the shelves and washed the windows, wrinkling his nose at the stench of sewerage that invaded the workroom every time he opened the windows.

After spending a year little better than a servant, Levi began to teach him. Armin enjoyed painting, but he found more drawn towards charcoal drawings. Levi had told him that was fine, but he would have to work on his painting technique if he had any hope of making money off his choice of career.

“I didn’t have a choice,” Armin had replied. He received a cuff on the ears for that.

Despite his gruff demeanour, Levi had been a good teacher and, after much networking, he managed to find someone who was willing to pay for Armin’s first commission. The painting was a simple scene from the Bible, the Virgin Mary receiving news from the Archangel Gabriel. Armin knew the story well, and he worked hard, putting every effort he could into the single painting.

The commission was a success, and work started flowing. He learnt the art of networking, earning more money from each commission.

It was years later that he and Jean Kirschtein once again crossed paths.

 

* * *

 

 

_1586- Florence, Italy_

“Armin Arlert,” a voice said from behind him. Armin turned to see a tall nobleman looking down at him, a smile on his face.

“Yes?” he said. The man frowned.

“I take it you don’t remember me? Jean Kirschtein. You fixed my broken nose after I pushed you into a bowl of soup.”

The memory rushed back. “Yes, I do remember! Forgive me for being so rude.”

Jean waved away the apology. “I actually wanted to ask a favour. Not a painting. Art classes.”

Armin frowned. “An apprenticeship?”

“No, I just want you to teach me. I’ll pay you.”

Armin mulled it over. His profession wasn’t some casual hobby for nobles. He was against such views, which is why he was surprised at the words coming from his mouth.

“When are you available?”

 

* * *

 

 

Within minutes of walking into his workroom, Jean was going through his things. “What’s all this?” he asked, going through Armin’s sketchbook.

“Nothing,” he said irritably, grabbing it from Jean’s hands and handing him a new one instead.

 “They looked like machines,” Jean said, not dropping the subject and taking a seat on the lone stool in the studio.

“They are,” Armin said. He gestured to the sketchbook in Jean’s hands. “You can use that. We’ll start with graphite drawings until we get your technique up to scratch.”

Jean paged through the sketchbook. “Where did you get this?” he asked as Armin opened a drawer, looking for spare graphite sticks. “I made it,” he replied, handing a stick to Jean. As Jean had taken the only seat in the room, he sat directly on the floor, his own sketchbook and graphite in hand.

“Draw me,” he instructed, expecting a snarky comment, but Jean bent his head down and began to sketch.

 

* * *

 

 

_This can’t be happening_ , Armin thought, months later, as he felt his heart beating wildly as he stood very close to Jean, looking over his shoulder at the sketch he had just completed. It wasn’t the sketch, the problem was how utterly _vulnerable_ Armin had begun to feel around Jean, how standing close to him like this made his skin feel hot, his heart constantly lodged in his throat.

He straightened up, walking back to the second stool he had made a few weeks after Jean’s first visit. “Your technique has improved,” Armin said, smiling at the joy on Jean’s face. He had learnt so much about the man after countless evenings together, that Jean was funny, that he was brutally honest, that he was eager to learn and do the best for himself.  

Jean turned to a new page. “One more?” he asked. Armin nodded, going back to the sketch that he hadn’t finished.

Weeks later, the feelings had only intensified and Armin started to panic. He wanted to shut Jean out, tell him no, find another teacher, but all words failed on his lips when he was around him, the way he always looked straight into his eyes, his expression telling him he knew exactly what Armin was feeling, and that terrified Armin far more than he was willing to admit.  

He found himself trusting him, the first true friend he’d ever truly had, and he felt utterly vulnerable because of it. He felt as if Jean could open him up in ways that no one else could, that all he had to do was reach out his hand and pluck what he wanted from Armin, and Armin would give up anything and everything to him.

Which is why he began telling Jean about a very different part of his work.

“You see,” he said one day as he shaded in a portion of Jean`s face as he sketched it. They had moved on to charcoal drawings some weeks previously. “Those stars out there mean something. How do we _know_ we’re the centre of the universe?”

“The Church seems sure of it,” Jean replied, glancing at Armin before returning to his own sketch.

“What if the Church is wrong?” Armin said, insisting on pushing the issue. Jean paused.

“Shit, Armin. I don`t think you should continue on that line of thought,” he said, continuing with the sketch, but not really concentrating.

“Why not?” he countered. This time, Jean put the sketchbook down.

“Because,” he said, the expression in his face causing Armin’s to heat up, “You’ll get hurt.”

He didn’t know what to say to that, so he pretended to go back to his sketch, simultaneously loving and hating the warmth spreading through him at Jean’s words, his heart feeling hot and heavy.

“It’s the right thing to do,” he said softly, looking up to see Jean hadn’t picked up his sketchbook, and was instead giving him a look that gave him the sensation of being undressed.  
“What?” he asked. Jean didn’t reply. Instead, he placed his sketchbook and charcoal onto his lap, gaze increasing in intensity. “You’re pretty incredible, you know that?”

Armin tried to go back to his sketch, tried to act as if this conversation was the most normal thing in the world.

“I’m not,” he said. He made a line, pressing too hard. Black dust ran down the page, staining his fingers black, scattering like a cluster of stars on his white pants. _Stupid, really_ , he thought, _wearing white pants while using charcoal…_

He didn’t look up when he heard Jean’s chair move from his spot, didn’t look up when he heard footsteps, his heart beating wildly when he felt Jean more than he saw him. He looked up to find Jean standing much too close.

“I’m not,” he repeated, trying to find something to say.

Jean was irritated at that.

“I’m not going to indulge your low self-esteem,” he said, holding his hand out. It was black with charcoal. Armin took it, and Jean lifted him up, pulling him close.

“Jean, what…” he started, but stopped when he saw the look in the other man’s eyes. Was he imagining it? They stood there, in each other’s space, Armin’s chest feeling so full he was sure it would burst, desperate hope rushing through him tainted with laces of doubt. _Surely he can’t possibly feel the same_ , he thought desperately as Jean played with his hair, pushing stray bits from Armin’s face, not minding the way the charcoal created streaks on his cheeks, covering the light dusting of summer freckles that marred the otherwise unblemished skin. Not knowing what to say or feel, Armin lost his breath when Jean leaned forward without hesitation and gently covered his mouth with his, quiet and cautious, cupping his face with tender hands.

The kiss was a whisper, skin brushing against soft fabric, and when Jean pulled back he met Armin’s eyes, searching for something in them, a sign that this was fine.

Armin leaned forward, catching Jean’s mouth again with more fervour, and Jean accepted it, meeting Armin’s passion with his own. Armin accepted the heat burning within him as it had been threatening to consume him for months, finding that he was truly content with fire burning him alive.

 

* * *

 

 

_1589- Florence, Italy_

This was it. Years of research had finally given him what he needed; proof that the Earth was not the centre of the universe. According to the science, it was impossible.  All he needed now was to submit it to be published, to be read only by a few colleagues. It would be fine, only a few people would read it for now. He imagined Jean disapproving of such a suicidal move, but he had to do it. It was the breakthrough of a lifetime, it was his duty to tell people of it.

Jean was too paranoid. It would be fine. He swallowed down his pride as he handed in his papers to the printers to be copied for distribution.

Panic threatened to overwhelm him as he saw the words over his front door, proclaiming his status to the world.

_Heretic_.

It was laughable. He’d been in a forbidden relationship for three years, yet a want to know the world would be the end of him?

He wrote his letter to Jean, sweet, kind Jean, who would be so angry and would not understand. Armin didn’t want Jean to understand. He didn’t deserve such compassion; all he could offer was an old, dusty apology that could never be a balm to heal hurt, all because he had to prove he was right.

His life was all he could give to Jean, the chance that no one would ever, ever find out about them, that his sins would not put the one he loved in danger. Armin told himself this over and over again as he walked alone down a sandy country road, silver in the moonlight, a lone figure in a world that wanted to cleanse people like him from the world in a glorious baptism of fire.  

**Author's Note:**

> This was my first Jearmin fic, so any feedback is appreciated! Be sure to read the other works written for this event! 
> 
> Prompt: Baptism of Fire  
> Team: AU
> 
> Please vote in the comments!  
> On a scale of 1 to 10:
> 
> 1\. How in character was my fic?  
> 2\. How well did my fic handle the prompt?  
> 3\. Overall enjoyment?
> 
> [Here's a link to my competitor from Team Canon](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4569816)
> 
>  
> 
> [Please check out the other works for the Jearmin Summer Splash Here!](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/JearminSummerSplash2015)


End file.
